


Hush little baby, don't you cry

by Anathema Device (notowned)



Series: The Marquess of Delafere Investigates [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternative Universe - Victorian Era, Attempted assassination, F/M, Kidnapping, Racism, threats to pregnant woman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-14 05:00:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13000398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notowned/pseuds/Anathema%20Device
Summary: Athos and Sylvie have some happy news to share with their friends, but they are caught up in a deadly political game that threatens them and their unborn child.





	Hush little baby, don't you cry

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to Thimblerig for sanity reading.
> 
> No children were harmed in this story, and no children actually appear in it either :)

 

_**MARRRIAGE** _

_Olivier Francis d’Athos, ninth Marquess of Delafere, and Miss Sylvie Hypatia Boden, daughter of the late Dr Hubert Boden of Lambeth, were married on Wednesday, the fourteenth of September, 1870, at St James’s Church, Piccadilly. The bride’s dress was[ivory silk brocade with pale pink trim](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/be/07/b9/be07b907c0063468af83d26ca82474c3--bustle-wedding-dresses-weding-dresses.jpg), and she wore a veil of Honiton lace, with a crown of  ivy and pink myrtle. Miss Boden was given away by her friend, Porthos Duvallon, while Mrs Duvallon acted as matron of honour, with Mrs Constance Bonacieux as bridesmaid. Colonel John Treville and Doctor Aramis Herblay stood up for his lordship as best man and bridegroomsman._

_The assembled guests were small in number, but hearty in sentiment, cheering mightily as the happy couple were pronounced man and wife. The wedding party and guests removed to Mr Duvallon’s elegant home in Stoke Newington, along with this reporter who was invited to join in the celebrations, and treated most handsomely. The lavish hospitality of Mr and Mrs Duvallon was in the best of taste and style, and while Lord and Lady Delafere were the only nobility present, the uniformed police officers made a fine showing, and danced enthusiastically with the young female friends of the bride and bridegroom._

_We understand that, though the engagement was brief, the bridegroom and his young bride have been acquainted for many years, as he was formerly her guardian. When deep affection became a desire to wed, with such long familiarity between them and with no living relatives to consult, there was no need of a lengthy pre-nuptial attachment. His lordship’s household, almost all of which was present at the wedding and breakfast, holds his bride in the highest regard, and rejoiced greatly at their union.  (We also heard it whispered that a second marriage from Lord Delafere’s household may take place soon.)_

_The marquess and his beautiful marchioness departed the following day for Dover, there to take a boat to France and undertake a six-week tour of that country and of Italy. We wish them fine weather and pleasant sailing for their honeymoon._

*********************

“Sylvie! Athos!” Constance flew at them as they stepped through the front door, and hugged them, crying with happiness. “Let me look at you. You look well, thank God.”

“We’re quite well,” Athos said, grinning at his housekeeper. “Though I think we’ve worn out Fleur and Edward. Would tea be too much to ask for?”

“Of course not,” she scolded. “Go change and I’ll bring it through to the sitting room. It’s so good to have you home, my lord, my lady.” She bobbed a perfect curtsey, though spoiled it with a cheeky grin, before rushing off to make the desperately needed tea.

As other servants ran to assist the much-put upon young people who had acted as valet and lady’s maid on their tour, Athos took his beloved Sylvie’s arm and walked upstairs with her to her room. Nanette followed them in short order with an ewer of hot water and clean cloths for a quick wash. “Excuse me, your ladyship, will you be wanting a bath this evening?”

“Oh, I’d love one,” Sylvie said. “Athos and I can share it, though.”

The young girl blinked in obvious shock. “Yes, mum,” she said, with a nervous bob. “Mrs Constance says tea will be ready in fifteen minutes.”

“Please ask her to make twenty,” Athos said. “Thank you. That will be all for now.”

“Yes, my lord.” She fled, and Sylvie hid her giggle.

“I’m scandalising the young,” she said, allowing her lord to tug her close and kiss her. “Porthos won’t let us have any more of his people if I keep that up.”

“Scandalise away,” he said. “A shared bath will be a delight. But now, allow me to assist my lady.”

Being his wife’s maid was one of the many pleasures Athos allowed himself after the miracle of their marriage. With concentrated gentleness and skill Sylvie had more than once praised to the heavens, he undid buttons and loosened her corset, removing travel-stained clothing, and releasing a heartfelt sigh.

“It’s so good to be home,” she said, twisting in his arms.

“It’s good to be home with you, darling.” They indulged in more kisses, before Athos remembered the time and tugged her over to the basin. He poured some of the hot water into the basin, and dampened one of the cloths.  “A wash, my lady?”

She sat at her dressing table chair. “If you please, my lord.”

He cleaned her face and neck and arms, dragging the cloth slowly over flawless tawny skin, while she fairly purred under his touch. Once done, he hugged her from behind, and put his hand on her stomach, still so flat. Could it be true?

“Should I tell Constance?” she murmured, placing her hand over his.

“That’s your decision, dear. I fancy she’ll guess soon enough. But we must have Aramis examine you as soon as you’re ready.”

“I hope it’s true. I want your child, Athos.”

“I want what you want, my love. But not at the price of your health or happiness.”

“I hope I won’t lose either in bringing our child into the world.” A shadow crossed her expression as it did his own. No use in pretending that childbirth was a dangerous business, even for a woman as fit and healthy as Sylvie. “Don’t mope, dear. Are you done? Shall I return the favour?”

“If you like. Don’t expect me to shave though.”

She rubbed his bristly cheek. “It suits you. Maybe you should grow a beard.”

“I might at that, if it delights you.”

Shedding his jacket and shirt, and having her skilful hands on him, inevitably excited a reaction, and they were newly wed enough to take shameless advantage of it. Twenty minutes later, cleaner, slightly breathless, and smiling like naughty children in their dressing gowns, they went downstairs again, this time to the sitting room.

Constance was waiting for them, and greeted their flushed faces with a knowing smile. “Tea? And I want to hear _everything_.”

Though exhausted from travelling all day, Athos and Sylvie managed to entertain their friend and housekeeper for over an hour before Constance took pity on them and suggested they might like a light supper in their room, before having a bath. Athos agreed without hesitation. He did take the time to scrawl out two notes to be delivered in the morning—one to Porthos, announcing their return, and begging the attendance of his personal physician at that good doctor’s convenience, and the other to Inspector Treville, also announcing their return, and begging a few days to settle back home before being tasked on any cases the inspector might need assistance with.

For one thing had been readily and firmly agreed between the new husband and wife—they would continue to investigate crimes as Athos had once done for so long, and as Sylvie had recently taken up. She would be his partner and apprentice, and not children nor gender nor newly elevated social class would stop her. Athos cared not one whit how scandalised society might have been by his marriage to a beautiful dusky-hued woman many years his junior, and from well below his station. All he wanted in a wife and a lover, he had found in Sylvie, and though she might not be his first love, she would be his last. And they would do things together, as equals, or not at all.

Aramis called at their home three days later, bearing welcome news that all in the Stoke Newington household were well, and an invitation to Porthos’s house for Christmas. He exclaimed at how well Athos and Sylvie looked. “I prescribe a continental tour every year if it improves you both so much.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Sylvie said, squeezing Athos’s arm and looking lovingly into his eyes.

Athos coughed. “We suspect there might be another reason for Sylvie’s blooming condition.”

Aramis narrowed his eyes, then nodded. “That explains the request for my attendance.”

“Yes. We would appreciate your opinion.”

“Shall we move to your bedroom, Sylvie? Athos, please come too. I assume your bride won’t object.”

“Do you, darling?” Athos asked.

“Not at all. It’s only right you see what your tender love making results in.”

Aramis choked while Athos grinned. “A doctor’s daughter, you recall,” he said to Aramis. “Come along then, dear.”

He sat looking out the window as Aramis carried out the intimate examination, out of respect for Sylvie’s dignity. When Aramis told he was done, Athos turned. Aramis was already washing his hands again with the fresh soap and water provided for him.

“It’s very early days, but yes, the symptoms point to pregnancy. Sylvie, you know that many pregnancies end in miscarriage at this early stage, so please don’t get your hopes up until you pass the third month. Continue to eat and drink in moderation, take your usual exercise, and avoid excessive alcohol—not a problem for you, I suspect. You should avoid the noxious chemicals Athos is likely to wave about in your investigations, but other than that, you have no reason to restrict your activities.”

He dried his hands and smiled broadly. “My congratulations, and even if this one doesn’t succeed, it does prove you are both fertile, which is good news.”

“Please don’t tell Porthos just yet,” Sylvie said. “Just in case.”

“Of course not. This is your private affair, the two of you.”

“Aramis,” Athos said. “May we ask you to be Sylvie’s physician and supervise this pregnancy? And the delivery, if possible.”

“Of course. Porthos and Samara would insist on it. You will need to decide where you would like to be delivered, my dear, and of course, there’s the delightful task of a nursery to set up. Samara will insist on helping there too.”

“I would expect nothing else,” Sylvie said. “Marie will have a cousin.”

“She will. Although another brother and sister will follow soon, if I know the Duvallons, and I think I do,” he said with a little bow.

“I’m sure you do,” Athos said, smiling at the man. “Now, if we’re done, Constance is determined to prove that Porthos is not the only one who can lay on a generous lunch. So please, come join us.”

By Christmas, Sylvie was sure she was pregnant, if only because she was suffering from morning sickness so severe that she couldn’t attend the church service, and only managed the carriage ride to Stoke Newington by dint of Constance’s attention and sips of a ginger cordial Aramis had prescribed as helpful. Samara took charge of her once the Delafere party arrived, and Samara’s prior experience with the problem allowed her to cosset Sylvie with light food and soothing teas while Athos guilty partook of typical Duvallon generosity.

The entire household was there and would stay for two days. The Belgravia house was closed up since Athos would never permit his servants to work over this holiday. In previous years, he and Sylvie had muddled along together alone. This year, he was joyously surrounded by friends and their families. The change was remarked on any number of times, and he couldn’t find it in his heart to be annoyed by it.

By the end of January, Sylvie’s pregnancy had progressed enough to be reasonably certain it would succeed. The worst of the morning sickness had passed, and she spent her days alternating between working on Treville’s cases with Athos, and preparing the nursery. Her bedroom would be stripped and cleaned under Aramis’s direction, and readied for an expected delivery in early July.

Cleanliness and strict control of infection was key, Aramis insisted. Fortunately, the midwife, Mrs Thornbeam, who had assisted Samara, had agreed to work with Sylvie, and she was as firm on the importance of a clean environment as Aramis was, though she was wary of most other doctors.

“Dirty hands, nasty tools, and too much pride to ask for help,” she assessed. “Don’t you let them near your lady, my lord.”

“I won’t,” Athos promised, taking Sylvie’s hand. Though the delivery was many months off, his regrettably encyclopaedic knowledge of the many ways people could die even without the assistance of a murderer, gave him too much to worry about.

For a first-time mother, Sylvie was, by contrast, quite sanguine. “Compared to many poor women, I have every privilege and fortune, and therefore a much better chance of a safe delivery. The rest is up to luck and the baby itself.”

“Like a battle, I suppose. You can plan and prepare and train, but on the day, one can never predict the outcome.”

“Exactly so, dearest Athos. So don’t dwell on the dangers. We’ll do our best to prepare, and you know Aramis is a skilled and knowledgeable doctor. For the rest, we can only pray and hope.”

He kissed her forehead. “You are so very sane, and your soul is old and wise. I feel like a callow youth next to you.”

“You’re but a child, Mrs Thornbeam said. She said no man is ever truly grown up.”

“That woman is going to be a bad influence, isn’t she?”

“She’s a treasure, Samara said, so we’ll just have to do our best about her opinions.” She tugged him down to the bed next to him. “I’m not made of glass, love. Anne died. That doesn’t mean I will.”

Athos jerked a little. “I wasn’t thinking....”

“Not deliberately, I know. But it can’t help.”

“No, it does not.” He leaned into her embrace. “I’m just a foolish man in love, astonished at the good fortune that allowed me to make you my wife. I can’t help but worry about any threat to our happy life.”

“Think of the happiness, not the threat.” Her eyes lowered in a way that stirred Athos’s heart as much as his loins. “There’s always a way to distract yourself from unhappy thoughts.”

“And what might that be, my darling wife?”

She boldly put her hand on his upper thigh. “Have you forgotten already, my lord? Perhaps you need reminding.”

“How could I forget how saucy you are, my cheeky wench?” He pulled her down to the bed, and cupped her left breast. “Constance complains we do nothing else.”

“Wait until she marries d’Artagnan. We can laugh at the two of them in revenge. Please stop talking now, dear husband. I have better uses for your noble mouth.”

He loved his cheeky, beautiful wench so very much.

*********************

By the start of spring, Sylvie’s pregnancy was obvious, and she was blooming with it. Now past all morning sickness, she was one of those fortunate women with whom pregnancy agreed. The nursery was now ready, and she was about to start looking for a governess. and a nursemaid. As always, the search would begin with Porthos’s charges, women who had fled abusive homes or prostitution, to be educated and trained for a better way of life. She had some names, but would wait until late April to approach any of the girls. An extra maid was also wanted, Athos insisted.

“Goodness, Athos, do I really need a lady’s maid, a governess, a nursemaid, and another maid as well?”

“The extra maid is for Constance, dear. There’s bound to be more cleaning and so on with a child in the house. An extra footman too, would not go amiss.”

She snuggled up next to him in the bed. “Do we have room for all these people?”

“If not, we’ll move. Our servants have been steadfast and loyal, and the best companions for the two of us. I want the house to be comfortable for all, and that means not overworking anyone, from the scullery maid to dear Constance.”

“You’re setting a bad example, or so I hear. One mustn’t coddle servants.” She pulled a face. “I overheard Lady Winterton at church. She disapproves of us.”

“Too bad for her,” Athos said. “She’s only the wife of a baronet. Pull rank and spit in her eye. I didn’t make you a marchioness so you would have to submit to a pompous little snob like her.”

“Oh, is that why you married me? To provoke your peers?”

“Of course. Why else?” He laughed as she pretended to attack him. “How is the offspring?”

“Lively again. Aramis says it’s a good sign.” She made a face. “It’s not his insides being used as a gymnasium.”

A case Treville had asked them to help with took all their free time for the next fortnight, and then it was Easter. After the servants returned from their short holidays, Athos and Sylvie travelled across London to visit the Duvallons to ask about prospective hires, for Sylvie to draw Samara’s experience regarding her stage of pregnancy, and to admire Marie who was now crawling and babbling happily to anyone who would listen to her.

They took their leave around four, promising to return soon, when Porthos would have a list of candidates for a governess for Sylvie’s consideration. As the carriage set off, Sylvie put her hand on her stomach and rubbed it, her expression queasy. “Are you unwell, dear?” Athos asked.

“I might have eaten something that the baby objects to. It’s kicking a bit.”

Athos put his hand on her stomach and rubbed it gently. “Now, now, little one, leave your mama to digest in peace.”

Sylvie sat back in the seat, her strained expression relaxing a little. “Ooh, she’s listening. Keep doing that.”

“I thought you thought it was a boy.”

She smirked. “Whatever I say, you’ll forget it all when the baby arrives. That’s much better, love. Thank you.”

“Anything to help.” He took her hand and held it.

The journey across the town normally took at least an hour. Athos was reluctant to urge their driver, George, to go faster, because the motion might make Sylvie nauseous, though the speedier the journey, the sooner she could lie down and rest. He considered whether he should suggest she refrain from carriage journeys until the birth, since they were such a trial. Surely they could arrange for her to do her researches at the house—

George brought the carriage to a sudden halt. Athos put his head out of the window. “What’s happening, George?”

“Sorry, my lord. The gentleman up ahead wants a word with you.”

Athos now saw the other carriage a few yards away, blocking the road. “Well, tell him to hurry up. My lady needs to go home.”

A well-dressed man approached. “My apologies, my lord. Sorry to bother you, but it’s quite urgent.”

 _Damn the man._ Athos had half a mind to tell him to come to the house, but perhaps it would be over more quickly if he talked to him now. “Is that all right with you, my dear?”

“Let’s hear what he needs to talk you about. It must be important.”

Athos opened the door of the carriage and the man climbed in. Athos immediately regretted it as the man sat by Sylvie and drew a pistol, pointing it at her stomach. Sylvie gasped, then winced as the pistol was poked hard against her. “Be quiet, the pair of you, or she’ll suffer for it.”

Athos gritted his teeth. Sylvie’s expression revealed nothing of her emotions, except for her eyes, which bored into his. “What do you want?” Athos snapped.

“You two are coming with me. You tell your man that you’ve accepted an invitation and will be coming away with us. You keep it straight, or your lovely lady will lose her life and her child.”

“What do you want with us?”

“That will be revealed, my lord. Now talk to your man, and beware I can hear you. Out the window will do.”

Athos struggled to keep calm, the pistol against Sylvie’s body at once enraging and terrifying. He leaned out of the window. “This gentleman wants to talk to me about the Belgard affair. We’ll go in his carriage. Let Mrs Bonacieux know we’ll be late.”

“Very good, my lord,” George said.

The man waved his hand to indicate Athos should exit the carriage, Sylvie behind him. Athos could have possibly made a run for it, even with his leg, but Sylvie would never make it before the man shot her down. So he went against his wishes, and behaved, clutching his useless sword cane and keeping the weapon hidden as he leaned heavily on it.

“Off you go,” he called to George, who nodded and set off smartly.

“What was that about Belgard?” the man asked.

“A case I’m working on with the police,” Athos lied. “It’s a plausible reason to go off with someone.”

The man grunted. “Over there, my lord.”

The other carriage was being driven by another well-dressed man in a top hat. Athos very much doubted he normally worked as a carriage driver.

“Climb in,” the man told them. His pistol was stowed in his coat pocket but very clearly a threat.

Athos helped Sylvie inside, squeezing her hand in silent support. She squeezed back, her hand trembling slightly, but her expression resolute. The man climbed in and banged the carriage ceiling.

“You might at least introduce yourself,” Athos said.

“Mr Smith, my lord. And the gent upstairs is Mr Jones.”

“Well, Mr ‘Smith’, if you want money, we have little on us. And if you wanted to kill me, why threaten my wife?”

“We want neither money nor your death, my lord. Just your assistance with a small matter to do with the government.”

“What small matter?”

“Uh uh,” Smith said, wagging his finger, “you’ll have to wait until we arrive at our destination.”

“Look here, why involve my wife? If you want my help, then let her go home. You can see she’s pregnant.”

Smith leered. “Exactly. She’s the perfect person to make you behave.”

Athos refused to react. He kept Sylvie’s hand in his, and didn’t look at the man. He kept a careful watch on their route, though, and noted the route. They were heading south of the river, towards Lambeth. They stopped at a house in Brixton and were ordered out and in through the front door.

“Now that’s better,” Smith said. “Up the stairs, my lady, my lord. Your chamber awaits.”

Athos held Sylvie’s arm, cursing that they had brought her into this. On his own, he was confident he could have fought his way out of it, but he would never risk her, and they knew that perfectly well.

They were ushered into a large bedroom cum sitting room. “There you are. You make yourselves at home,” Smith said, as if they were invited guests, and not prisoners. “There’s a bathroom through that door, with all conveniences.”

“How long do you propose to hold us?” Athos snapped. “My wife needs to have her physician at hand.”

“How long is up to you, Lord Delafere. Sit down, both of you.” He waved the pistol to indicate he would use it to force them, if necessary.

“We will be missed, you know. I have a meeting tomorrow with Treville at Scotland Yard. And my housekeeper will set up a hue and cry if we don’t return tonight. She’s very protective of the marchioness.”

Smith was unperturbed. “I’m sure. Your wife can return as soon as you do your little task, my lord. All we want you to do is arrange a meeting with the prime minister, and when you meet him, you will kill him.”

Sylvie gasped. “I’ll do no such thing,” Athos said.

“I think you will.” Smith approached Sylvie and yanked her to her feet, the pistol again at her side. “Her life will be forfeit if you don’t. But we won’t kill her fast, or easy. I can make it last days and days, while you watch.”

“You touch her, and I will kill you.”

“Maybe. But she’ll be dead first. And if that doesn’t persuade you, how many other friends might die to make you change your mind? Mr and Mrs Duvallon, perhaps? That little girl of theirs? Maybe your servants, while you watch. How long before you crack, I wonder.”

“What possible use is killing the prime minister? Do you imagine Gladstone is indispensable? Irreplaceable?”

“Not at all. What he is, is a symbol of the brutal rule of England over Ireland, and he is the sacrifice we [Fenians](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fenian) demand for the deaths of the [martyrs in Manchester](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manchester_Martyrs).”

Athos shook his head at this cant. “Ridiculous.”

“Your opinion is not important or requested, my lord. All that matters is that you do what we ask, and then your lady will go home. You, sadly, will almost certainly be apprehended and charged with murder, but that’s a small price to pay for your wife’s safety, isn’t it?”

He shoved Sylvie towards Athos, who rose to catch her and take her in his arms. “Pen and paper will be provided to you. Write to this Treville, your housekeeper, and to Gladstone’s private secretary. Make no attempt to send secret messages. The letters will be scrutinised.”

“Get out,” Athos said.

Smith smiled. “Of course. You’ll find dressing gowns and new underclothing in the closet. If you have any requests, knock on the door and someone will come. Don’t attempt to escape or attack that person. There are others in the house, and they have instructions to target Lady Delafere in the event of any disruption.”

He turned and walked out. A few moments later, the door was locked quite thoroughly.

“Athos,” Sylvie said, burying her face in his neck, but not to weep as he thought. “I have my pistol,” she whispered.

“And I my cane,” he replied, just as quietly. “But, my love, I can’t resist this vile creature in any way, or you will be killed. I’ll do anything to avoid that.”

“Even kill the prime minister?”

Athos went still. “Even that.”

“You can’t. Not for me.”

“If not for you, what about Porthos and Samara? Or Marie? Do you imagine they’re joking about what they plan for them?” She buried her face again. He stroked her back. “I’m sorry, love. Before we come to that, let’s apply our minds to how we can alert the police, and rouse those who might help us.”

*********************

John Treville’s irritation at being interrupted at home while eating his supper, quickly dissipated as Constable d’Artagnan related that Athos and Sylvie may have come to harm at the hands of an unknown gentleman, with whom they went in his carriage for a given reason that included a code word signalling danger.

“She was alarmed by the reference to ‘Belgard’. By the time I arrived for supper, she had received this note.” D’Artagnan handed it over. “As you can see, sir, there are several oddities which must be deliberate.”

Treville scanned the note.

_Dear Mrs Bonacieux_

_Sylvie and I have been detained.  Should anyone at the Yard enquire, tell them we are tied up on the Belgard case, and can’t be contacted for now._

_The carriage has developed an annoying sway, which vexes my wife. Have Charles look at it._

_Delafere_

The tone, the incorrect name for Athos’s groom, the over-formal address and signature, and the repeated use of ‘Belgard’ were clearly warnings that something was badly amiss. “Did you think to stop at the Yard before coming here?”

“No, sir,” the lad said, looking down. “I made haste to tell you. I’m sorry.”

“No, no. But I wonder if he sent a message to me. What do we know of the man who carried them off?”

“George gave me a good description of the man who took them away, and of the carriage, which was a black brougham without insignias or markings, pulled by a bay gelding. I could try to sketch the man from George’s memory, as I did in the Rochefort case?”

“A good idea. But if Athos has to communicate in code, then he is being watched, and so might his house be. Shame you were in your uniform, but it can’t be helped. Were you followed here?”

D’Artagnan straightened up, adjusting his cuffs. “Um...it didn’t occur to me to keep watch, sir.”

Treville winced, though it was hardly surprising. “I need to warn Constance that she may be observed.”

“She knows that, sir. She worked it out the way you did.”

“She’s a treasure, that woman.” He quickly ate another potato from his plate, then went to the door. “Mary?”

His housekeeper bustled in. “Yes, colonel?”

“Please put my meal in the oven to keep. The constable and I are off to Scotland Yard.”

Treville’s house in [Marylebone](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marylebone) was only a forty-minute walk to the Yard, but his anxiety made him impatient, so he hailed a hackney cab which took them there in short order. As he half expected, there was a note from Athos waiting for him. Once again, the man had larded it with plenty of clues that he and Sylvie were being held against their will.

_Dear Geoffrey_

_My dear wife and I have been unexpectedly detained so I am forced to cancel our meeting tomorrow._

_Regarding the Belgard murder, you should again question William Dangerfield about their meeting on the fifteenth ultimo. I believe him to be lying about his reasons for the encounter. Do you recall the Dancy case? It could be that we are dealing with something similar._

_Delafere_

The Dancy case had been a kidnapping of a jeweller and his wife, where the wife had been threatened to force the jeweller to open a safe at his shop, enabling thieves to steal a fortune in gemstones. What was Athos trying to tell him?

“Here, d’Artagnan. What do you make of this?”

The lad read it carefully. “We don’t have a Belgard case, do we, sir?”

“No, and there is no William Dangerfield. Fifteen ultimo. Fifteenth March.” What did that signify?

“The Ides of March,” d’Artagnan said as if to himself, while he read.

Treville shook the lad’s shoulder. “That’s it. The Ides of March—a political murder. Dangerfield—Danger. And he’s used the name William. Danger for William. He’s telling us that someone is going to try to kill the Prime Minister, William Gladstone.”

D’Artagnan’s eyes went big with shock. “Lord, sir. But what has Lord Delafere to do with that?”

“I think someone will try to force him to make the attempt, by threatening Lady Delafere.” He looked at the clock. Nearly eight pm. "Where did he say they were bailed up?”

“Richmond Avenue, sir. In Barnsbury.”

Treville went to the map on the wall and found the street. “At what time?”

“Almost exactly half past four, George said.”

“Right, and the note arrived here at twenty past seven. What time at the Delafere house?”

“About twenty to seven.”

“Very well. So, one doubts the kidnappers had Athos write these notes in the coach, so he must have written them in the place where he’s being kept. Two and a bit hours between abduction and the first note delivery.” He went to the door of his office and called to the night clerk. “That note. Was it delivered by a man on foot or on horse?”

“A boy, sir. On foot. A ragged little fellow, he was.”

“So, assume the carriage will travel at least as fast as a boy on foot, and giving Athos ten minutes at minimum to write these two notes, we allow the boy an hour and twenty minutes to arrive at the Delafere house from the kidnapper’s place, and forty minutes for the kidnapper’s carriage to go from Barnsbury to wherever they are holding the Delaferes.”

He calculated the distances in his head. “Six miles from Barnsbury to that place. Four miles at most from there to Belgravia.” He used a ruler to work out the area where the two distances were feasible. “No further north or east of Barnsbury, I warrant. South or west will work.” He indicated a semi-circle on the map. “That covers from Shepherd’s Bush to Brixton, at the very least. We can’t search an area that size, but we can put out an alert.”

He turned to d’Artagnan. “Nip along to the Delafere house, tell Constance what we think is happening, and make a sketch from the driver’s description. I’ll send a note to the PM’s secretary and ask him to let me know about any unusual requests for meeting, and for the PM’s schedule for the next week. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, constable. Tell Constance I will send men tomorrow to sit in the house and prevent anyone hostile from entering.”

“Yes, sir. I hope Lady Delafere is all right, sir.”

“I hope they both are,” Treville said fervently. “Go on.”

He needed many more eyes on the street.

He needed Porthos.

*********************

Their captors had thought of everything. Apart from painting shut the front windows, and barring the back ones, they had provided all Athos and Sylvie could reasonably want in the way of clothes, food, and washing facilities. Feigning a sudden illness on Sylvie’s part might bring medical attention, but it might as easily bring a bullet to her brain, and Athos would do nothing to risk her in the slightest way. She insisted she was not fragile.

“I know you are not, my dearest love. But if things go how they plan, then you must survive to tell the truth, and to tell our son and daughter the truth. When the time comes, you will fight, I know it. But fighting now will only result in your pointless death, and I will be on the hook as securely as before—only without your presence to console me.”

“Who will console _me_?” she whispered angrily as they lay in bed, dressed in new nightgowns their captors had put out for them. “Athos, you’ll be killed if you do what they say.”

“Possibly. That is not certain.”

“Do you think Treville will work out your clues?”

“Yes. I have every faith in him. It’s not the first time we’ve done this. The question is whether he will be able to do anything with that knowledge.”

“How...how soon, do you think?” She shuddered a little, and he held her tighter.

“I have no idea. The prime minister is a busy man, and I don’t know him at all. The request will seem most strange, unless Treville is alert and warns him. Which he will.” He kissed her forehead. “We must be brave, darling. Prepared and brave.”

“If they touch me, I’ll shoot them.”

“Please do. But only if you can get away. Use the coins as soon as you can, as will I. It’s a faint hope of that working, but we have to try.”

“I still don’t know why they chose you. Us.”

“Bad luck? Perhaps because my name was associated with Treville’s over the Rochefort murders? Or perhaps it was my posting to Derry.”

“That was years ago.”

“I know. But the Fenians have long memories. Disposing of a marquess as well as a prime minister in one go would be quite a coup for them.”

“Don’t sound so approving.”

“I’m not. But I was military, Sylvie. I can’t help but work out what advantages this would bring them It will cause enormous distress, of course.”

But would that help their plan or turn the government against them? Killing a prime minister [sympathetic to the Irish problem](https://www.lurganancestry.com/1869.htm) was foolish, if they wanted public support for their cause.

Athos hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but he had no strong hope of his own survival whatever he said to Sylvie. He _had_ to die, or she would never be freed. He prayed she was stronger than he had been over the loss of Anne. At least this way, he would not lose another woman he adored.

*********************

D’Artagnan did not disappoint, bring with him a passably good sketch of the man who had forced Athos and Sylvie away with him. Treville told him to have it all printed up with a description of the carriage and its horse, along with an urgent request for information about it or the Delaferes. Treville would concentrate on distributing the leaflets first in the south and west areas of the city he had identified as possible locations for the kidnappers’ lair.

He expected a message from Porthos that morning, but Porthos himself arrived at the Yard. “What can I do?” he said, without preamble.

“I need your people to keep watch on this area,” Treville said, showing him on the map. “Athos and Sylvie will try and alert us, I know they will, but in the meantime, I need everything remotely odd. D’Artagnan is having a leaflet drawn up, but we’re looking for a black brougham and a bay gelding.” At Porthos’s expression, Treville nodded ruefully. “Yes, I know.” There were dozens of such vehicles drawn by bay horses in London.

“How long will the leaflets be?”

“A couple of hours. I can have them sent to you, or your people can pick them up.”

“I’ll have someone standing by. But I need to get on and talk to people who know people. You think they’re threatening Sylvie?”

“I’m almost certain of it. What better way to force Athos to do anything?”

“Samara is beside herself. Me too. And Aramis. If anything happens to them, I’m gonna tear the bastards limb from limb.”

“I’ll help,” Treville said. “Have your people come here direct, and ask for me, d’Artagnan, Clairmont, or the Commissioner himself. The kidnappers must not know we know, do you understand?”

“I do.” Porthos frowned. “Would Athos do it? Kill Gladstone?”

“What would you do if Samara’s life were at stake?”

“Kill him,” Porthos said without a moment’s hesitation. “Without blinking. Whatever it took.”

“Then, there’s your answer. But he’ll do everything in his power to avoid it happening, if he can keep her safe. So we must help him in that.”

“We will. I’ll send a message or come myself this evening, and each day after.”

“Good. Oh, and Porthos—someone had to have been watching them leave your house. Possibly had them under surveillance for some time. You might ask around your patch.”

“I will. Send a couple of those leaflets along tonight for me, but I’ll start the running now.” He clapped Treville on the shoulder. “No one touches our Sylvie. Or his lordship, however much of an annoying sod he can be at times.”

The ghost of a smile found its way to Treville’s lips. “No, indeed.”

A note from the PM’s assistant private secretary arrived for Treville just before noon. “Constable d’Artagnan, with me.” D’Artagnan stood. “We’re going to the Lords.”

[Spencer Lyttleton](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_William_Spencer_Lyttelton), the private secretary, was a sour-faced man with a receding hairline. He received them in his office. “Thank you for coming so promptly, inspector. I felt it best to discuss this in private.”

“Yes, indeed. Sir, this is Constable d’Artagnan. He’s my assistant in this matter.”

“Of course. As my note said, we have had contact from Lord Delafere. This is his note.”

_My dear Spencer_

_I am in urgent need of a meeting with the Prime minister, to discuss a matter of profound national importance. Is it possible for you to arrange this at his lordship’s earliest convenience?_

_With sincere good wishes_

_Delafere_

Treville looked up. “My friends do not call me Spencer,” the man said with a disapproving look. “And even if they did, I’ve never met Lord Delafere.”

“It’s a warning,” Treville said. “He’s done the same in his notes to me. We believe Lord and Lady Delafere were kidnapped yesterday and that he is being forced to enact a plot against the PM. To be blunt—to kill him.”

Spencer Lyttleton frowned. “You don’t actually expect me to arrange this meeting, do you?”

“I do indeed, but only so we can speak to Lord Delafere, extract him from this situation, and discover how we may do the same for his wife. Mr Gladstone will come to no harm, I promise. How were you supposed to reply to this?”

“A note in his box here, I presume. There is no other information.”

“Then the kidnappers have made a mistake. I will need to speak to the prime minister though, as we’ll need his and the government’s cooperation.”

“He’s a busy man, inspector.”

“I’m aware of that, but the lives of two people—one, a pregnant women—are at stake, and I’m sure Mr Gladstone won’t want to be responsible for their deaths for the sake of a couple of minutes’ conversation.”

The secretary did not like that one little bit, but after going off and consulting whoever he needed to, returned. “You have five minutes, inspector.”

“Thank you. You should be there too. And you, constable.”

*********************

After the prime minister overcame his shock at Treville’s information, his agreement to the unorthodox plan was secured, even though it would cause a brief but unpleasant uproar. Treville asked Spencer Lyttleton to immediately leave a note for collection, specifying an appointment for Athos with Gladstone the following morning at eleven. It was short notice, but Treville did not want Sylvie kept prisoner longer than necessary, and it gave his men a shorter window in which to surveil the individual who picked up the message.

That individual would not be challenged, but he would be followed as far as possible. Most importantly, Athos’s arrival would not be a surprise to anyone, and Treville hoped would lead to no deaths whatsoever.

The note was collected at three pm. The man who collected it—bearing a permission slip from Athos—was followed over Westminster bridge, where he was picked up by a black brougham pulled by a bay gelding, and driven away too swiftly to be pursued on foot.

“South of the river then,” Porthos said when he turned up in person to hear and receive the latest news.

“So it seems. We should concentrate our efforts there.”

“I’ll have word put out. Is this gent the same one who took them away?” Porthos tapped the topmost leaflet on the pile Treville had given him.

“We think so. The general colouring and build are right.”

“I don’t like this plan, Treville,” Porthos said, rubbing his chin. “Athos will be all right, but Sylvie will be of no further use to them once he does what they want.”

“She’ll still be a useful hostage, I hope. I suspect they’ll try and move her and that may give us our chance. I’m having a watch put on as many roads as we can on that side of the Thames, outside our two-mile radius, and in the meantime, we may spot the carriage or one of these two men.”

“I don’t like it,” Porthos repeated.

“I don’t like any of it,” Treville said. “Especially the part about Sylvie being in danger. But what do you suggest? Until we speak to Athos in person, what more can we do?”

“ _You_ can’t do more. _I_ can. Them that won’t talk to the peelers will talk to me and mine. So you’ll have to excuse me. I have some people to visit.”

“Good luck.”

Porthos turned and gave him a smile. The kind of smile that told Treville someone would soon be very sorry they had laid hands on Sylvie d’Athos, The Marchioness of Delafere.

*********************

Not long after the breakfast tray had been removed, Smith walked into their room without knocking, as was his vulgar habit. Athos put himself between Sylvie and the man.

Smith looked him up and down. “Get dressed, my lord. You have a meeting with the prime minister at eleven o’clock.”

“I’ll do what you want, but for the love of God—for simple humanity—let Sylvie go. She won’t tell of your plans.”

Smith’s smile was nothing but a sneer with pretensions. “Oh, I’m sure she won’t. Because she won’t be let out of our sight until both you and Gladstone are taken care of. Be very careful not to survive, Lord Delafere. That would put us in a difficult position _vis à vis_ your lovely lady.”

Athos refused to answer, and Sylvie did not clutch at him, or weep, or make any indication of her feelings. “You’ve said your piece. Get out.”

Smith bowed with mocking elaborateness. “Of course, my lord.”

When the door was shut, Athos took Sylvie into his arms. Now she wept, quietly and with restraint. “Trust in Treville, my dear.”

“And if we can’t? If they have deluded him or done something which makes it impossible to help you?”

“Then we have done all we can. You have the weapons, the coins. Fight with your last breath, darling. As will I.”

“Promise me you won’t kill the prime minister. It’s not worth it. They won’t keep their word. You know they won’t.”

“I promise that only I will be harmed, if anyone is.” He stroked her cheek. “We have an hour or so. Let us not spend it in fear, or in tears.”

She tilted her head defiantly. “No. Tell me how we will raise our child. How we will name them. What we shall strive to do for them. Tell me how they will be proud to be your child.”

He sat her down on the bed, and laid his hand on her stomach. “ _Our_ child. Conceived in love and joy. The essence of our happiness. I want you to know that I regret not a moment with you, from the first time you came to live with us. Even before you did. I have always been fond of you. I learned to love you early. I’ll always desire you, and I’ll always be thankful for the time we have had together.”

She bit her lip, and more tears fell, though she forced a smile. “I thought you were so very cold when I first met you. So reserved and haughty. But then I saw your smile and heard you laugh, once or twice, and I knew you were not cold at all. I never thought you anything but handsome, though. Too good for me.”

He stroked her cheek. “Never. I’m nothing special.”

“The father of my baby? Hush, don’t speak such blasphemy.”

He put his arms around her. “Indeed. I apologise. Though I am hardly Aramis or d’Artagnan.”

“Aramis is too ridiculous—like a painting by some Romantic painter. D’Artagnan needs to grow up a bit. He’s not a man, like you. He’s a....”

“A puppy, Constance calls him.”

She grinned damply. “Yes, exactly. Barely housetrained.” Her face crumpled. “Oh Athos, Constance...will we see her again? And all our friends? Samara?”

“Yes,” he told her firmly, though with little hope. “We will. They won’t defeat us.”

Even if he survived only in the blood carried by Sylvie’s baby.

*********************

Treville waited in Spencer Lyttleton’s office for Athos to arrive. His old friend arrived just before eleven, looking pale, tired, and with an intense grief in his eyes. The misery lifted when Athos spotted him. “Thank God,” he whispered, and nearly staggered as Treville caught his arm. “John, we have to save Sylvie. They have her. In Brixton.”

“That’s what we suspected. Porthos’s people were sure they had found the carriage. We’re watching the streets where we think the owners reside. Do you know the address?” Athos told him what he thought it was, and jerked as he realised d’Artagnan was in the room too. “Constable, have our men sent to that address immediately.”

Athos stopped the lad leaving. “No, you can’t! They’ll kill her. They’ll kill her if I don’t assassinate Gladstone, and kill myself. I believe them.”

The bleakness in Athos’s expression was deeper than Treville had ever seen it, even after Anne de Breuil was hanged. “I have a plan about that. First, tell me everything you can. D’Artagnan, get the men in position around that address, but for heaven’s sake, don’t let them get too close.”

D’Artagnan slipped out of the room. Treville made Athos sit, and the secretary brought over a glass and carafe of water. “They claim they’re Fenians,” Athos said. “That killing the prime minister, is retribution for those men hanged four years ago in Manchester. But the man, Smith, isn’t Irish.”

Treville pulled the leaflet from his pocket. “Is that him?”

“Yes. Never seen him before in my life. He has others in the house. God, what if they spot your men?”

He rose from his seat, but Treville pushed him back carefully. “Athos, they’re in plain clothes, and Porthos is with them. Aramis too. They insisted. What else do you know?”

“Nothing. They kept the two of us in a bedroom the entire time. They won’t let her live. She knows too much.”

“I know. But they won’t kill her yet. We have time. First, we have to kill you and mortally wound the prime minister.”

Athos stared at him in shock.

*********************

Sylvie had barely breathed since Athos was taken away. Even the baby had gone still and quiet. She stroked her stomach, praying that some miracle might save her husband and her child, but she could not see how anything less would.

It felt like hours since Athos had gone, but she honestly had no sense of what time had really passed. She jumped when she heard the lock, but then stood, resolved to be brave and give these evil men _nothing_. It was Smith again, of course. “Congratulations, Lady Delafere. You’re now a widow.”

She clenched her jaw and said nothing. She refused to give him that satisfaction.

So he taunted her again. “I suppose this means you’re a wealthy and eligible woman again.”

“Are you going to kill me?”

“Said we wouldn’t, didn’t we? But first, you are going on a little ride with us. Since your lord would have surely told the police of our location.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re lying. You wouldn’t have waited until you had word. You don’t know whether he’s alive or dead. Nothing’s happened yet.”

Smith smiled again. “Clever girl. Move.”

She picked up her coat as she passed the chair, and let him manhandle her out of the room and down the stairs. She had to wait until they were outside.

The carriage waited for them, but she could see no one about to help her—only a couple of children playing across the road. Surreptitiously she dropped a wrapped coin out of her pocket as she came down the stairs, and another as she climbed into the carriage. Smith smirked at her as he rapped the carriage’s ceiling. “Move off.”

The carriage lurched, and she instinctively put her hand over her stomach. “Think they’ll let his brat sit in the Lords? With your skin? Delafere is a traitor to his class, marrying you.”

“If the only reason you have for feeling superior is my colour, then you’re a pathetic specimen.”

Smith’s smirk slipped. “Bitch. I hope you like what we have planned for you, my girl. It’s going to be a very long time until you see London again. Plenty of men will pay well for a posh bit of mulatto skirt, especially when it’s two for the price of one. Then Delafere can marry an English rose instead of a blackberry.”

What did he mean? Was he going to try and sell her on the continent? In the Americas? Would that even succeed? She continued to hide her emotions, and put her hands in her pockets as if she was cold, staring out of the window.

Her chance came not long after, as the carriage passed through a crowded intersection in central Brixton. She pulled her pistol out of her pocket and shot Smith in the face, shoved the carriage door open and tumbled out of it.

“Help! Help! Someone help me, help my baby!” She ran as fast as she could towards the densest mass of people, screaming blue murder. The carriage driver gave chase, but Sylvie bolted into the nearest shop and slammed the door behind her.

“There’s a man behind me who abducted my husband and me,” she gasped out to the surprised shopkeeper and the customers. She’d run inside a pharmacy, she realised. “I’m Lady Delafere. Please, help me! Don’t let him take me away.”

A woman moved forward, and took her arm. “Come with me,” she said, tugging her along and pushing her behind the other people. A man came to the front, and when the driver came in, he faced a group of determined women and one man, keeping Sylvie behind them.

“I’m looking for an escaped criminal. She claims to be Lady Delafere, but she’s lying.”

Sylvie had reloaded, and now pointed her pistol over the shoulder of the woman in front of her. “You’re the liar. I am Lady Delafere, wife to Olivier d’Athos, Marquess of Delafere. You are a coward and a kidnapper. Sir,” she said to the male customer. “Please fetch the police. And you,” she said to the driver. “Don’t you dare move or I’ll shoot you.”

The man didn’t take her seriously, and lunged towards her, his hand in his pocket for his own weapon, but he’d forgotten the pharmacist, who threw a small but heavy stoppered glass bottle at his head. The man dropped like a stone, and the women surged forward to sit on him.

“Nice throw,” Sylvie said, still breathless.

The pharmacist grinned. “Wandsworth [First XI](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/First_XI). Come and sit down, my lady.” He opened up the counter flap and guided her through it, so she could sit on a chair before her legs gave out under her, which she feared they would.

She smiled politely up at the man. “Thank you. Would someone please fetch the police? And could someone tell me what time it is?”

The male customer put up his hand. “It’s eleven o’clock, my lady. And I’ll fetch the police.”

She nodded as she put her hand to her throat. _Please let Athos be safe._

Mere moments later, a large man burst through the door. Sylvie stared at the sight, unable to believe her eyes. _Porthos?_

Porthos looked at the man being held down by the customers, but failed to notice Sylvie behind the counter. “Where’s the Marchioness of Delafere?” he bellowed. The little group of women drew together more tightly, though they did not cower before this angry stranger.

Sylvie stood. “Here, Porthos. How have you come to be here? Where’s Athos?”

“He’s safe, my lady, I promise.”

As the pharmacist let her through the counter again, Aramis ran into the shop and came to an abrupt halt at Porthos’s side. “Sylvie! Thank God.”

She shook her head in amazement. How _had_ her friends found her?

Explanations had to wait while Porthos took charge of the driver, Aramis took charge of Sylvie, and the pharmacist and his customers kept a watch over all of them. Two constables appeared shortly afterwards, and took the driver into their custody, hustling him out of the shop.

Sylvie wondered if they had found Smith and the carriage. “Don’t worry about him,” Porthos said. “My people have it all under control.”

“Athos,” she said, nudging Aramis’s concerned inspection aside. “I must see him.”

“Right away, my lady,” Porthos said, grinning. “My carriage is outside.”

She took his arm, but turned first to the knot of kind strangers. “Thank you,” she said. “My husband and I are very grateful.”

“It was a pleasure, your ladyship,” said the woman who had first pulled her to safety, giving a little curtsey.

“And very exciting,” said another, to the grins of her companions.

“Glad to help,” the pharmacist said, with a bow.

Sylvie smiled at them, then looked up at Porthos. “Take me to my husband?” she pleaded.

Outside, Smith’s abandoned carriage was surrounded by curious onlookers and police. “I shot him. Is he dead?” she asked.

“Do you care?” Aramis asked.

“No. So long as I never see him again.”

Aramis touched Porthos’s knee. “Wait in the carriage. I’ll just pop over and explain where we’re taking Sylvie.”

Safely in Porthos’s carriage, Sylvie sat back in the seat and nestled against Porthos’s reassuring, so very _real,_ bulk, while Aramis spoke to one of the police officers. She hoped they wouldn’t decide to charge her with murder.

Aramis was back in a minute or so. “I told them we were going to see Treville, and you would make a statement to him. Your kidnapping has been well advertised, so they know what is happening. They’re happy.”

Porthos rapped on the ceiling to make the driver go on. “Happy or not, they ain’t getting our girl away from me.”

She gripped his arm a little tighter as the carriage moved off. “Tell me what happened. How on earth did you find me?”

She listened in wonder as Porthos explained that once they had deduced that Athos and Sylvie were being held south of the river, Porthos had concentrated his small army of observers there, and they had spotted the carriage that had been used to abduct them, travelling to Brixton. Porthos and Aramis were but a street away when Sylvie had been removed from the house, and one of the children playing on the street had spotted the note-wrapped coins she had dropped. The children, who knew someone was being urgently searched for, had run to find Porthos, and so Porthos’s carriage was only a little was behind Smith’s as Sylvie was driven along Brixton Road towards Clapham.

“When it stopped, we saw the driver running. I knew it had to be our man, and chased after him.”

“And that was it. Simple,” Aramis said, smiling at her.

“Simple,” she repeated, smiling and shaking her head in wonder.

Porthos reached into his pocket and drew out two objects—the note-wrapped coins. “I gave the youngsters their reward, and replaced the original coins with my own. Thought you might want these back as souvenirs. That’s a cunning trick. I’ll have to remember that.”

“May I?” Aramis asked, so Porthos handed the coins over. He unwrapped one and read the message. “‘To whomever finds this note— The Marquess of Delafere promises a gold sovereign to you if you take it to a policeman and tell him where you found it.’ Clever, indeed.”

“Athos learned it in India, he told me,” Sylvie said, taking the coins and putting them in her pocket. Athos had asked her to write the notes, since her writing was finer and smaller. They two of them had spent ages wrapping the coins as small and tightly as they could. “Please, tell me how he can be safe.”

“Treville is waiting for him,” Aramis answered. “He’ll hold fire for an hour or so, to see if they can find the house and you from Athos’s information. The plan was to release a statement that Athos is dead and the PM mortally injured, to flush them out, but as you see, we’re a little ahead of them.”

Sylvie smiled, but shivered a little too. “Smith told me Athos was dead. But I knew it had to be a lie. They had to know he would tell someone where we’d been held. Smith...who is Smith? What’s this all about? They said they were supporters of the Fenian cause, but they weren’t Irish. Athos was sure they were lying. But then, why kill the prime minister?”

“I imagine we’ll know more once we speak to Treville,” Aramis said. “The important thing is that you are all safe, and your child is too.”

She put her hand over where the baby lay. “Athos said we would survive.”

“He was right. Clever bloke, your husband,” Porthos said with a grin.

Sylvie knew that. But she also knew that Athos would say whatever he needed to, to keep her going. When he’d left that morning, he had no true expectation of seeing her again, she was sure. She’d pretended to believe him, for his sake.

But he was alive! Tears filled her eyes quite suddenly, surprising her. “Now, now,” Porthos said gently. “It’s all right.”

“I know. That’s why I’m crying. I’m relieved.”

“You’re a funny little thing,” he said, taking her hand and patting it kindly. “No wonder Athos loves you.”

*********************

The PM’s secretary was kind enough to let Athos and Treville wait in his office, though the man had to be very busy. He left them several times to attend to matters, but showed no impatience on his return.

Athos, however, could barely sit still for worry. “I should—” he said for at least the fourth time, and for the fourth time, Treville stopped him from rising and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“No. Athos, you can’t be seen. If we have to run with this ruse of you being dead, you dashing about the streets of Brixton will give the lie to it.”

“But Sylvie...the men holding us were brutes, John. Utterly without conscience or mercy. They could be doing anything to her.”

“Porthos and Aramis and at least two dozen of Porthos’s little helpers, along with my men, are there. We’ll catch them. They can’t get out of London, I promise you.”

Unable to restrain himself any longer, Athos ducked under Treville’s hand and stood. He walked to the window, stared out of it unseeing, and then walked across the room. He had been confined for too long, and he had never dealt well with helplessness. “I had this bloody sword cane the whole time. I couldn’t do anything with it for fear what they would do to her. But I might have managed to save us both.”

“You would have got her killed. Both of you,” Treville said, his brow furrowed. He pulled out his pocket watch. “It’s only half past eleven. We won’t probably hear anything for at least another half hour.”

Someone knocked at the door. As the private secretary was out of the room for the moment, Athos took on himself to open the door to explain the man was out at present.

But when he saw who was waiting for him, he was quite lost for words. “Athos,” Sylvie murmured, falling into his arms. “You’re alive.”

He buried his face in her hair. She was here. Here and _safe_. How?

He looked up and found Porthos, with Aramis behind him, grinning like a fool. “You? You found her?”

“We did, and brought her to you.”

Treville startled Athos by speaking behind him. “I’d better tell the PM. Good work, lads,” he said, before squeezing past them. “I shan’t be long.”

Porthos stepped into the room and wrapped his arms around the two of them. “Thank God you’re both safe.”

“Thank Porthos, Aramis, and Treville,” Sylvie said, grinning at Athos, though her eyes were damp.

“Are you well? Did they hurt you? The baby—”

She put her fingers on his lips. “We are both quite well.”

“Except for that chap, ‘Smith’,” Aramis said. “Your wife shot him in the eye, and he’s very dead. And the driver is in custody.”

“With a headache. A cricketer threw a very heavy bottle at him.”

Athos frowned in confusion. “I don’t—”

“I’ll tell you everything once we go home, darling,” Sylvie said. “May we go home now? Please?”

Athos kissed her. “We need to wait for Treville, but I can’t think of a reason we shouldn’t. Unless it’s not safe. Porthos?”

“If it’s not, you can come to mine for as long as you need. Constance will be frantic though.”

Athos looked up at his friend. “Your plan saved their lives. Thank you.”

“Anytime, mate,” Porthos said, beaming at him.

Treville returned just then, with Spencer Lyttleton who urged them away from the doorway so he could close the door and give them privacy. “Right. The PM will say nothing until we know who was behind this. My lord, my lady,” he said with a grimace, “you can’t return home just yet. But I’ll have d’Artagnan fetch your lady’s maid, and what clothes you ask for. Anything else you need as well. I’ll keep two men at your house in case anyone tries to attack there. Porthos will keep you safe until we are sure the matter is over. At the moment, we have no idea what was behind this. The prime minister is sceptical of it being Fenians, just as you are, Athos.”

“They prepared quite well,” Athos said.” The house we were in had been modified to hold us. This isn’t some ragtag group of disaffected Irishmen.”

“I agree. So, I’m sorry you are still not able to go home, but at least you will be well cared for.”

Porthos beamed at them. “Samara’s gonna spoil you both, you wait.”

Sylvie smiled. “She always does.”

“So, all of you, go with Porthos. My lady, d’Artagnan is outside. Please tell him what you need. Athos, if you need a manservant—”

“No, I don’t. Just my reading glasses and a couple of books. I’ll give him a list.”

“Good. I shall see you both soon.”

Sylvie slipped over to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, John.”

“You are quite welcome, dear girl.”

*********************

Sylvie could not bear to be more than two feet from her darling husband for the rest of the day, or indeed the night. He clearly felt the same, keeping his hand on her in some manner unless there was some unavoidable reason for separating. The worry in his eyes lessened, but did not wholly dissipate. When they had all repaired to the sitting room after dinner to talk, Sylvie revealed the events after Athos was removed from the house, his fist clenched in anger on his knee.

“How dare they?” he said in a cold voice. “How dare they presume that you are an object to be manhandled, sold or bargained for?”

“It’s not that far back in her history or mine,” Porthos said. “And there are still plenty of countries who would assume our skin was a licence to enslave us. It’s one of the reasons I’m never travelling to the Americas. Either of them.”

Athos lifted Sylvie’s hand and kissed the back of it. “I would never allow it. And if it happened against my will, I would never stop searching.”

“I know you wouldn’t. I’m glad the customers in that shop realised the driver was lying. They might have believed him.”

“No one who sees you can imagine you to be anything less than a fine and upright woman of good character,” Athos insisted. Sylvie and Samara exchanged rueful looks. “Are you treated badly, and yet you don’t tell me?”

“Dear Athos,” Samara said. “If Sylvie told you every instance, or I told Porthos, or he told me, of white men and women being disrespectful in however minor a fashion, we would talk of little else. Sylvie is known to be of quality by anyone who cares to look. Unfortunately, not everyone does.”

“What can I do?” Athos asked, his brow furrowed in frustration. “I made you my marchioness, you allow me to dress you as finely as I dare, and you are received by my circle. What more do people need to know you are my equal, love?”

“You solve that one and you’d solve half the world’s ills,” Porthos said gruffly, taking Samara’s hand. “There ain’t nothing more you can do except love her, listen, and be the man you are.”

“And if another ruffian decides to lay hands on her, on me? I am powerless if they threaten her. The more so now,” he said, glancing at Sylvie’s stomach.

“You might want to think about hiring a guard or two,” Porthos said. “We don’t go out without at least another man, sometimes two or three, depending on when and where.”

“That might be sensible,” Sylvie said. “I wonder if d’Artagnan is available?”

“Treville won’t like me poaching one of his most promising constables.”

Porthos chuckled. “Considering John spends so much time complaining about the lad, maybe he’d let you have him cheap.”

“Constance would be so happy,” Sylvie added.

Aramis had kept quiet through this discussion but now offered an opinion. “That boy shows great promise as an investigator. If Athos is to continue working with the police, then does it matter who employs d’Artagnan? He’s handy with his fists, and could be taught what he doesn’t know.”

“I’ll certainly consider it,” Athos said.

“I’d like that. Rather him than a stranger. Perhaps Porthos knows of other promising lads who could act as footmen and guards as well?”

“I do, my lady, I do,” Porthos said. “And what they don’t know, me or Aramis could teach them.”

“Aramis?”

“He’s a crack shot,” Athos said. “Didn’t you know that? Can shoot the whiskers off a fly at twenty paces.”

Aramis smiled politely. “I don’t make a habit of that, you understand.”

“Good heavens,” Sylvie said. “Perhaps I need a better pistol too, dear.”

“I’ll buy whatever you desire. I might also mount a Gatling gun on the carriage.”

Sylvie laughed in shock. “You can’t do that.”

“Watch me.” But her darling man’s green eyes twinkled with the first true amusement she had seen since the kidnapping. “Guards, guns, swords. Whatever we need to keep what is most precious to me safe.”

*********************

After a good night’s sleep in complete safety, Athos was refreshed—and keen to solve the mystery of who had kidnapped the two of them. Now he could _think_ , without being immersed in dread every waking moment.

With Sylvie still soundly asleep—the poor love had had a much more difficult day than he had—he sat at the little writing desk and set down what he knew.

_Fenians? Revenge motive - but why so far in the future. Also, Clerkenwell Prison bombing alienated English supporters of Irish cause. Another act of violence would not help._

_Emboldened by[disestablishment of Church of Ireland](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Irish_Church_Act_1869)?_

_Kidnappers prepared at length. No identifiable Irishmen spotted. Is plot really Irish?_

_Who benefits from death of PM? Is it personal or political?_

_Why **me**?_

He laid down his pencil and stared at the paper. “I need to see Treville,” he murmured.

“Both of us?” a sleepy voice asked.

He moved to the bed, and lay down next to Sylvie. “Did I wake you, darling?” he asked, stroking his hand along her dark hair.

“No. I think I sensed you had left the bed, and that woke me. Are we going to see Treville?”

“ _I_ am going. _You_ are staying where Porthos can keep an eye on you.” She pouted a little. “Forgive me, dear. I shall lose my mind if you’re endangered again soon. Or at all.”

“Yes. But then so will I, if you come to harm. Take someone with you?”

“Certainly. Aramis, if he’s free. I think someone will try to attack Gladstone again and soon.”

“The Fenians?”

“Quite the opposite. I believe whoever is behind this is strongly against the Fenian cause, and the question of home rule, and that they are alarmed by recent moves in that direction. Gladstone is a target because he is not only Prime Minister, he’s also sympathetic to the complaints of Irish Catholics, and a likely recruit to the cause of home rule.”

She pulled herself up, and Athos put a pillow behind her. “Thank you,” she said with a little groan.

“You aren’t in a fit state to be chasing around London again.”

She cupped his cheek. “Are you?”

“Yes, perfectly so. I didn’t exert myself physically, and once you were back in my arms, all my emotional ills were cured. But now I need to help Treville.”

“Breakfast first, darling. The prime minister’s watchdogs are already on alert. You may have another long day ahead of you.”

He leaned his forehead against hers. “Yet again, you’re wiser than me. Shall I have a tray brought in? We can eat together.”

“Please, not another meal on a tray,” she said, grimacing. “You need to dress, as do I. We shall go down together.”

Athos put his head out of the door and called for Fleur to assist her lady, while he removed himself to the dressing room to change.

Breakfast was over for the usual residents, but Porthos and Aramis were still sipping coffee. Outside, Samara, Marie, and her governess were enjoying a burst of warm weather, judging by the sounds they were making. Porthos rang a bell when Athos and Sylvie appeared, while Aramis stood. “How are you both?”

“Better,” Sylvie said.

“Yes, but I must go to Scotland Yard,” Athos said. “Porthos, do you have a carriage free this morning?”

“At your service, Athos.”

“Thank you. And Aramis, I need a bodyguard. Fancy the job today?”

Aramis smiled. “If you can find no one better suited, of course.”

“You’re perfectly suited. I want the rest of Porthos’s household guarding my darling wife.”

“Sit down, sit down,” Porthos said, waving his hand at them. “Breakfast will be here in a moment. Why do you have to go to the Yard?”

Athos explained, and over their meal, discussed what he had surmised. “I don’t know if there’s a personal connection with me, but I’m almost certain it’s Gladstone himself who matters.”

“No one’s getting near him with a weapon now,” Porthos said. “Even if they’re family, they’ll have to agree to a search before going anywhere near him. Anyone can be pressured if their loved ones are under threat.”

Athos glanced at Sylvie, and they shared a grimace. “That’s the government’s problem. _My_ problem is finding out why my family was the target.” He finished his coffee, then leaned over to kiss Sylvie on the cheek. “And with that, I’d like to go. Aramis?”

“At your service, my lord,” Aramis said, with an imaginary doff of the hat.

“Your lady will be safe with us,” Porthos said.

“But hurry back, darling,” Sylvie murmured.

“I will, my love.”

Aramis looked thoughtful as they set out in Porthos’s phaeton for Scotland Yard. “You wonder why you’ve been targeted. Is it possible Sylvie’s race has anything to do with it?”

“Possibly, though my past stationing in Ireland may be more important. I’m tempted to whisk Sylvie and my household back to Hampshire and my estate, and live there for the rest of our lives. Sylvie would find it very dull and stifling.”

“So would you, my friend,” Aramis said, smiling slightly. “You aren’t necessarily any more at risk than any other wealthy man, if we catch those behind this.”

“If we catch them,” Athos said, his emotions turned gloomy again.

“No one will rest until they find those behind this. If not for the prime minister’s sake, then for yours. I have never seen Porthos so angry.”

“A fearsome sight, I well know. I wonder what clues were left at that house.”

Athos had the answer to that question when they arrived at Scotland Yard. “Nothing,” Treville told him. “It had been cleaned and emptied of everything except the rented furniture. The lease was taken under a false name. But,” he continued, “we know who the mysterious ‘Smith’ was. Edmund Fabricant.”

Athos jerked as if he’d been shot. “Fabricant? Are you sure?”

“You know him?”

“He married Catherine d’Athos, née Garrowton, my brother’s widow. His father is Sir Basil Fabricant, who owns a small estate not far from mine. Absolutely no Irish connection there at all. Why on earth would an Englishman want to kill the Prime Minister over Irish issues?”

Treville shook his head. “We don’t know. His driver has worked for him for some time, but that’s all we know. But if there’s a personal connection between you and that family, that changes our line of enquiry. Did you quarrel with either father or son?”

“No, Though we weren’t friends,” Athos said, trying to recall. “My parents never cared for Sir Basil or his father. I’ve haven’t seen Edmund since we were both small children. Catherine was angry with Anne for killing Thomas, and then with me for clearing Anne’s name posthumously. She sent two quite bitter letters to me. But that’s years ago. I only learned she’d wed again when a family friend wrote to congratulate me on my marriage.”

“So Edmund Fabricant’s _wife_ may have a grudge against you?”

“Not enough to force me to kill the prime minister,” Athos protested.

“Enough to pick you as the weapon, perhaps?” Aramis offered. “If someone had to be chosen, I mean.”

“Then we’re back to why either Fabricant would want Gladstone killed,” Treville said.

“We have no evidence the father is involved,” Athos warned.

“No, quite. Athos, did your friend mention where Mrs Fabricant lived after her second marriage?”

“On the family estate, I think. Though I’m not sure she specifically mentioned that. I’ll need to check the correspondence, back at the house. Catherine’s family had money and land once upon a time, but her father ran up large debts before he died and by the time she and Thomas were engaged, she had nothing but her good breeding to recommend her. To tell the truth, my parents had rather fancied her as a possible match for me, but I didn’t think I would make a good husband for her, or anyone at that point.”

“Are you telling me that the man who abducted you was married to a woman who has at least one good reason to be furious with you?”

“I suppose I am,” Athos said, wincing a little at Treville’s expression.

“And you’ve just made this woman, who was likely depending on Edmund inheriting wealth, a widow again. Or rather, Sylvie has.” Treville rubbed his forehead with his thumb knuckle.

Aramis touched Athos’s arm. “If the father finds out your wife killed him in self-defence, I don’t imagine he’ll be happy with you.”

“His bastard of a son shouldn’t have laid hands on my wife.” Treville raised an eyebrow at Athos’s vehemence. “I shan’t apologise for my language.”

“No need. But Aramis’s warning is well advised.”

“Yes. John, that’s another issue. I need people to guard me, and more especially, Sylvie, when we leave the house. This could happen again all too easily. I was thinking of recruiting d’Artagnan.”

Treville gave him a sour look. “Pilfering my best officer? That’s not very friendly of you.”

“I’m sorry. He could still work with you, just at my cost, not yours.”

“You can ask him, I suppose. Until then, we’ll have officers at your house, and I presume Porthos will lend you someone, like the good doctor here.”

Athos didn’t want to press the issue. Treville had more than enough to deal with without contemplating losing a good constable. “Are you going to Hampshire to make enquiries?”

“No. I’ll send a message to Reading police station and have one of their inspectors visit the Fabricant residence. _You_ are to stay out of sight. You and Sylvie need to sit this one out, Athos. If you two were personally targeted because of some grudge, then you’re not out of danger.”

“The prime minister?”

“Will be safe. What we don’t know is, if there is a plan to switch to another victim, if Edmund Fabricant was the one in charge of the plot, and what his connections with Ireland are, if any. You stay at Porthos’s house.”

“As you wish. I’ll pass by there and check my correspondence regarding Edmund, and go from there to Stoke Newington. Is there nothing I can do?”

“After the last couple of days, haven’t you enough to do in looking after your wife? Go, go,” Treville said, shooing them. “Aramis, watch him.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” their doctor said politely.

At the house, Constance, weeping with relief, fell upon him and embraced him so tightly he thought he might suffocate. He gently eased her grip. “There, there, dear. We’re all quite well.”

Constance wiped her eyes. “I know, but just to see you is such a relief. Where’s Sylvie?”

“Still at Porthos’s house, and we’ll be there a few days yet. I’ve only come to check a letter I received, and to ask George to take the carriage over there. Are you well?”

“Now I am, yes. Though I miss you both.”

“And we miss you,” he said fondly. “Sylvie is anxious to return. Treville is tidying up a few loose ends, that’s all.” No point in burdening her with the truth. She would only worry. “He wants us to be somewhere well guarded until he’s done.”

Her clever eyes narrowed. “You haven’t caught all of them, have you?”

 _Too sharp._ He glanced at Aramis, who shrugged. “We...don’t know. So, keep watch, and let the constables open the door. Remember what I taught you of self-defence.”

“Athos, are we in danger? Tell me the truth,”

“Not _you_. At least, we don’t think you are. But I can bundle you all up and take you to Porthos’s if you wish.”

“I’m not worried on my account,” she said, her brow furrowed, “but we have some young people here who wouldn’t know what to do if we were attacked.”

That decided him. “Then bundle everyone up and come over with the carriage. I’m arranging a permanent bodyguard to accompany us when we leave the house. Unfortunately, it’s probably necessary now.”

“I know. The amount of hostility towards you and Sylvie would shock you.”

“What have you heard?”

She drew her shawl tightly around herself. “Gossip. Disdain. Outright hatred in a couple of instances. You married beneath you, they say, and not only is she not of your race, she’s not even wealthy.”

“Tell me who and I’ll tell them exactly how wrong they are.”

She gave him a rueful look. “Athos, you can’t fight everyone who disapproves. All you can do is protect her, live righteously, and let them simmer in their own disagreeable juices.”

“You shouldn’t have to listen to this nonsense.”

“Oh, I don’t. I give anyone a telling off who says anything like to me. But sometimes it’s just what you hear as you walk past, or from friends who’ve heard it. I do my best to keep it from Sylvie.”

Athos glowered at her. “She hears enough, so she tells me. People don’t understand how very much above me she is, how precious a gem I have captured.”

She patted his arm. “We know. Now, Aramis, you’ve been so quiet and polite, and this gentleman hasn’t even offered you a cup of tea.”

“She’s quite right. I apologise,” Athos said, turning to their friend. “Why don’t you go along with Constance while I find this letter, and speak to George.”

“As you wish, my lord.” His extravagant bow made Constance giggle.

*********************

The end of the case came a few days later, after Sir Basil Fabricant and Edmund’s widow travelled from Hampshire to identify Edmund’s body. Sir Basil was inconsolable, and at the viewing became quite violent, ranting and cursing, finally having to be taken into secure custody for his own safety. His daughter-in-law said little except to state she had no idea what her husband had been planning, that she had thought he had gone to London on business, and she would never have encouraged such a wild and dangerous plan.

“More than that, she refused to talk about. She wants the body to be buried on the family estate,” Treville reported when he came to dinner at Porthos’s house to tell them all of progress. “However, we learned that Sir Basil married a wealthy widow five years ago with considerable land holdings in Ireland. When this widow passed away, Edmund, as only son, expected to inherit those holdings. He had, according to his driver, become increasingly furious at Gladstone’s ‘appeasement’ of the Catholic farmers as he saw it, and talk of home rule with [this organisation of Isaac Butt’s](http://www.apple.com). He thought his fortune was under threat.” Treville coughed. “Measured reactions don’t seem to be a family trait, from what I can gather.”

“That’s a fair estimation,” Athos said. “And as to why we were chosen?”

“The driver said his master spoke of Sylvie in quite derogatory terms, which I won’t repeat,” he said, nodding at her.

“He said more than enough to me in person,” she said.

“You didn’t tell me that,” Athos said, taking her hand.

“What would have been the point?” Her hand was cold, and her eyes stormy. Athos determined to ask her later about the matter.

“He had considerable dislike of both of you, though whether that came from his wife or his father, or independently, I can’t say. I asked Mrs Fabricant about you and she said ‘Lord Delafere is nothing to me.’ I can’t tell you if she was being truthful or not. She sounded uninterested in the matter.”

“It’s possible her marriage soothed her wounds,” Aramis said. “But of course, if she discovers you ruined her happiness, that will change.”

“No one ruined her happiness except her fool of a husband,” Athos said.

“Who was no loss,” Porthos said.

“Not to us, at least,” Athos said. “So, it’s over.”

“As best we can tell,” Treville said. “The plan required no great ingenuity, only care in setting it up. As you have said, anyone would submit if their loved ones were in danger. The hostility to the Irish causes that the assassination would have aroused was entirely predictable. He didn’t have to be a genius to understand that.”

“Sir Basil was not involved, you think?”

Treville shrugged. “I think not, though his strong anti-Irish sentiments and expressed beliefs about class doubtless all played a part. He is unlikely to be a danger in the future. The doctors hold little hope for his quick recovery from his derangement.”

“So we can go home?” Sylvie asked Athos.

He turned to Treville. “John?”

“I see no reason to. Provided you hire guards as you promised to. D’Artagnan indicated you’ve spoken to him and that he’s accepted.”

“Please don’t be angry,” Sylvie said. “I’d much rather have a friend than a stranger at our backs.”

Treville smiled. “You know I can deny you nothing, my dear girl. And if he can work with you both on cases, then I’ve not lost too much.”

“Thank you,” she said, smiling prettily. Treville’s stern face softened even more.

“We have arranged for two other stout souls,” Athos said. “Both through Porthos, so they are utterly trustworthy.”

“I could set up business recommending staff, I reckon,” Porthos said.

Athos grinned. “We have no complaints about anyone you’ve sent us.”

“And now we really must hire a governess,” Sylvie said to Porthos.

Porthos made a face at Samara, who also frowned. “Actually, me and Samara have been talking about that. We think you ought to have someone from the gentry for your baby.”

“Gentry? Why would I care about that?”

“Because when your governess and your child are out and about, they won’t attract the wrong kind of attention. And it’s one less thing for fools to gossip about,” Samara said.

“I don’t care about that,” Sylvie said, but Athos shook his head.

“You should, my love. The less cause for hostility, the better.”

“But I like your governess, Samara. Edith is a treasure.”

“Yes, she is. But my husband isn’t a marquess—not officially,” she added with a small smile at Porthos. “And I’m not a marchioness. No one cares what we do. Clearly there are those who care passionately what _you_ do.”

Sylvie frowned. “Athos, you can’t expect me to listen to what bigots want.”

“No, darling, I do not. I only suggest that you listen to our friends, who love you.”

She stared at them all, before turning to Treville. “John?”

“I have to agree with Porthos and Samara, my dear. A gentlewoman would fit with the expectations of Athos’s class. And there’s no reason to suppose they would be inferior.”

She sighed heavily. “Very well. We’ll advertise for one. But if we can’t find someone who is at least Edith’s equal within a month, I’ll come back to you and this time, I will not be stayed.”

“It’s a deal,” Porthos said.

*********************

 _Wanted - A GOVERNESS. Must be a LADY of good education and manners, additional languages desirable. Position available from July._  
_Apply by letter to Lord D, 5 Cadogan Lane W1._

*********************

Sylvie was very glad to be back in her own home. Porthos and Samara were the soul of kindness and their house very beautiful and comfortable, but after the kidnapping, it was hard to bear still being kept from her own bed and room. With the baby growing bigger and she growing slower, she found the pull of the familiar stronger each day.

Dear Athos spared no effort in making her return easy, and in helping her through this late stage of her pregnancy. While they had reluctantly deferred to Porthos’s wisdom regarding the official governess, there was no reason not to have a nursemaid from whatever class they chose, so Athos put forward one of Porthos’s proteges—Cecily, a lass who had come up on the streets, had endured some of the worst the world could throw at a person, and who had educated herself so she could start a new life. Sylvie like Cecily at once, and Cecily, who had helped raise half a dozen siblings and nurse her mother through all those pregnancy as well as a final illness, was kind, gentle and practical. Sylvie was convinced her child would be in safe hands with her.

D’Artagnan joined their household within days of their return, whereupon Constance and he immediately announced their betrothal. As soon as the hearty congratulations from the household ended, Constance began to fret about when they could marry. “If we wed now, who will look after all these new servants? But if we wait until the baby is born—”

Sylvie sighed at Athos, who held up his hand. “Dear Constance, wed when you please. We’ll manage. All you two have to do is decide where you wish to honeymoon, as I will pay for that, and your trousseau. And refitting your quarters for two.”

Constance covered her mouth. “That’s too much, Athos.”

“Nonsense. I would do more, but I can’t think what else I can offer. Better wages, perhaps?”

Constance gasped in shock as d’Artagnan beamed. “No, you can’t. You already pay me more than twice what the best housekeeper in London earns.”

“Nonsense. _You’re_ the best housekeeper in London, and worth much more than twice what we pay you. But as you wish. If you want my opinion, I would suggest sooner rather than later. But it’s entirely up to you.”

Constance glanced at her fiancé. “Why don’t we wait until you have finished choosing a governess, and then we’ll be all settled. We can marry then and be back before the baby arrives.”

“Excellent. Until then, d’Artagnan, I expect you to keep up your shooting lessons with Aramis. You’ll have a wife as well as employers to protect soon.”

“Yes, sir,” d’Artagnan replied, grinning from ear to ear. He was so sweet, Sylvie thought, and coming along so well under Constance’s grooming.

Constance sifted through the applications for the governess position, and passed the most likely ones to Sylvie, who passed the ones she liked to Athos. A list of ten was sent back to Constance to write back to and invite for interview.

When the day came for the first ladies to be seen, Sylvie was in a state. “I don’t know how to do this,” she confessed to her husband. “I never thought I would have to. I wasn’t brought up to be a marchioness.”

“And I am very glad of that,” Athos said, picking up her hand and kissing it. “You’re not interviewing as a marchioness, darling. You’re about to be a new mother, so interview as one. You want someone you can trust, who is intelligent, kind, and imperturbable. I’ll be there, but you’re in charge.”

“But they’ll think I’m stupid.”

“Only a fool would think that, and we don’t want a fool looking after our child. You’ll do perfectly well.”

Athos’s optimism was dashed almost immediately. The first woman was shown into the library where they were conducting the interviews, and Athos introduced himself and Sylvie. The applicant stared at Sylvie, muttered “No, quite impossible,” and fled without another word. The front door slamming underlined her rejection.

Sylvie sat there, stiff-backed and trying not to show how shocked and hurt she was. Nastiness from strangers was, unfortunately, not unusual, but to be insulted so grossly in her own home....

Athos came over and put his arms around her. “I’m so sorry, darling. Would you like me to see them alone?”

“No. If they’re of that kind, let us find out now.” She tilted her head up defiantly. “When they leave, I shall still be Lady Delafere, and your wife. Nothing will change that.”

“Brave girl.” He kissed her forehead. He rang the bell for Constance to send in the next person. “Surely they can’t be all like that.”

But the second woman, while she stayed to discuss the position, could not even bear to look at Sylvie, and Athos cut the interview short—and less than politely. Sylvie pursed her lips and said nothing. The third woman smiled politely, but had clearly lost interest as soon as she met Sylvie. Another swift ejection.

“Good God,” Athos said. He paced around, unable to control his feelings. Sylvie would have joined him, but she was so huge now, she needed help getting up and down into a chair. “What’s wrong with this country?”

“Do we have that much time spare today to discuss it?”

He made a face at her. “Do you want to continue?”

“Yes. Let’s see every last one. And then when we’re done, I’m going back to Porthos. His people won’t behave like this.”

“I’m sorry. You were right, and I was wrong.”

The next two women were no better. Five down. Sylvie was having trouble keeping her temper—the last woman had been so _hideously_ condescending.

“I’m calling a halt,” Athos said.

Sylvie held up a hand, which only shook a little with her suppressed anger. “No. I said I would do this, and I will. They can’t hurt me with their foolishness.”

“But they are. And they’re infuriating me. I swear I’ll use my sword cane on the next one.”

“I won’t stop you, darling.”

Athos raised an eyebrow, and Sylvie smiled for the first time that morning.

The next woman was a widow, and came in dressed all in black, a veil over her face. She raised it as she sat down.

“Catherine,” Athos said in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“Applying for the position of course, Lord Delafere,” the woman said coolly. Sylvie took the opportunity to examine this woman who might have been Lady Delafere, or her sister-in-law, and whose husband, Sylvie had killed. She was fair-skinned with gingery blond hair, not longer young, very thin. Not very well favoured either, Sylvie was forced to admit to herself.

Athos drew himself up. “I’m afraid this won’t do, Catherine. You used a false name to gain entrance, after your husband recently kidnapped my wife and me. I don’t know what you’re up to, but I want you to leave.”

Catherine didn’t move. “Why, Athos, won’t you allow me to catch up with you over old times? Remember when you spurned me as too unappealing to be your bride?” Sylvie held her breath at such a naked revelation.

 Athos’s nostrils flared. “I did no such thing. I was in no position to marry and had no desire to.”

“Of course not,” she said sweetly. “Fortunately, Thomas was there to pass me onto, and he didn’t mind my looks or my dowry. But then you had to fall in love with a murderess, and my happiness was dashed. Again.”

Athos’s frozen expression told Sylvie he was holding back his emotions by sheer will alone. “Thomas pursued Anne and tried to force her, more than once. She killed him in self-defence, and sadly paid for it with her own life. What more do you want from me? Or from her?”

“You had to blacken his name, didn’t you? I wasn’t even able to live as a respectable widow after that. People tittered behind their hands when they saw me. All of that is your fault.”

“I’m very sorry for that,” he said, teeth gritted, “but I still don’t know why you’re here. I want you to leave. None of this is pertinent now. Consider yourself lucky I’m not calling the police.”

He went to the bell pulled and rang it, just as Catherine pulled a small pistol from her purse and pointed it at Sylvie. “Don’t cause a fuss, Athos. Tell your housekeeper you’re busy, or that you rang the bell in error.”

Sylvie covered her mouth in horror. Athos’s cold expression could have been carved from stone. “Hurt her and I’ll kill you.”

“Send for help and I’ll kill _her_.”

The door opened. Catherine held the pistol, still aimed at Sylvie, behind her purse, while Athos spoke to Constance. “Ah, Mrs Bonacieux. Er...we’ll be some time with this lady. Please tell Mrs Belgard that she should come again tomorrow. Ask Charles to convey her where she wishes.”

Constance curtseyed. “Of course, my lord, my lady.” The door closed behind her.

Sylvie exhaled. Now it was up to Constance. “What do you want of us, Mrs Fabricant?”

“Revenge,” she bit out. “Athos killed my husband. First, he rejected me, then his common little fiancée killed my Thomas, and then Edmund died at his hands. Enough. You have ruined my life for the last time.” She raised the pistol to aim it at Athos.

“He didn’t kill Edmund. I did.”

Catherine swung her head, and the gun, towards Sylvie again. “You’re lying.”

With the gun pointed at Sylvie, Athos could not jump the woman though Catherine was now distracted. Sylvie had to delay her until help came. “No. He was going to kill me, so I killed him. Athos wasn’t even there. Your husband was a coward and a criminal, and not worth anyone’s life. Not mine, not yours, not Athos. He deserved to die.”

“At _your_ hands?” Catherine sneered. “The hands of a degraded race, pretending to be a noblewoman like a carnival monkey in a dress? You weren’t fit to clean his boots.”

Sylvie put on her haughtiest marchioness face and sat as straight-backed as she could. “And yet, I’m still wearing mine, while he’s six feet underground. Dead. Dead and no loss to anyone.”

Catherine’s face twisted with rage, and Sylvie braced for her anger, her hand reaching for the ink stand, but just then someone knocked at the door, and both women stilled, Sylvie watching the other like a mongoose watches a snake.

When Athos opened the door, d’Artagnan stood there, bright and cheerful in his new footman’s uniform. “I’m sorry, my lord, but Mrs Bonacieux thought you might want refreshment.”

He held a tray, and removed a cloth from it. As soon as Athos put his hand on something lying on it, d’Artagnan dropped the tray with a loud clatter, revealing a pistol in his hand. The shock and noise distracted Catherine, allowing Sylvie to snatch the gun from her hand, and fire it at the woman, hitting her in the shoulder.

Though the wound was not serious, Catherine shrieked in pain, and would have thrown something or reached for Sylvie had Athos not shoved her down in her chair. The thing he’d picked up from the tray had been a pistol, and while he held Catherine at gun point, d’Artagnan dragged her out of the chair and pushed her to the floor, holding her down securely.

Athos yelled for Constance and their two new guards, while Sylvie emptied the pistol of bullets, and threw the gun across the room, well away from its owner. Then she sat back in her chair, hand over her racing heart, feeling as if she was about to be sick.

Athos rushed over to her. “Are you hurt, darling?”

“No, I’m fine. Don’t let her up.”

“We won’t.” He went to the door. “Constance!”

“Here,” Sylvie heard Constance calling, and in the next moment, their two new large guards, bearing ropes, ran in to help d’Artagnan secure their prisoner. In very little time, Catherine, bound and complaining, was borne from the room, to where, Sylvie neither knew nor cared.

Constance quickly came to her side to check she was uninjured, and once Athos had dealt with their unwanted guest, he returned to take Sylvie’s hand and apologise for what had happened.

“How is it your fault?” Sylvie said, fright making her sharp. “Send the rest of them away. I’m heartily sick of ‘gentle’ women.”

“Yes, of course. Constance, would you, please?” Constance left to dismiss the remaining applicants. “This is unforgivable, Sylvie. I should have met them all first.”

“How could we have predicted this, Athos? Darling, I need tea and something to eat or I shall be sick.”

“Do you want to move?” he asked. Her bladder would demand it not long after she drank the tea, she well knew.

“Eventually. Tea first?”

“Of course.” He kissed her forehead, and straightened up. “Yes, Constance?”

Constance stood in the doorway. “Athos, the applicants all fled when they heard the gunshot. All except one.”

“Send her away,” he said. “We don’t want them any more.”

She stood with her hands clasped together in front of her, her expression resolute. “I think you should talk to her.”

“Why?”

Athos frowned in annoyance, but Sylvie touched his hand. “Bring her in, Constance, please.”

He looked down at her. “What are you doing, dear?”

“I trust Constance’s judgement,” she said. “What harm can it do?”

“After what just happened?”

“You can keep your pistol close, if that helps.”

As soon as the woman walked in, Sylvie knew why Constance had wanted them to meet. The applicant was tall, rather more striking than pretty, with dark curly hair, and an olive complexion. She could have been Italian, or even French, but Sylvie was sure she wasn’t.

The woman curtseyed. “Thank you for seeing me, Lady Delafere, Lord Delafere. My name is Clementine Carvalho. I have longed to meet you, Lady Delafere. I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Indeed,” Athos said coldly. He was still on his feet.  “And what have you heard?”

“Please sit down, Miss Carvalho,” Sylvie said, since her husband’s manners had deserted him. “How have you heard of me?”

“Those of us who live on sufferance at the edges of English society, take a great interest in people like you, and Mr and Mrs Duvallon, who have entered into the heart of it and thrive. A good deal of harmless gossip goes on.”

“On sufferance?” Athos asked stiffly.

“I venture Miss Carvalho is Jewish, Athos. [Sephardic](http://www.sephardicstudies.org/uk.html)?”

The young woman smiled. “Yes. Well guessed. From Portugal, originally, though we have been in this country [for a very long time](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_the_Jews_in_England). And my great-grandfather was Algerian. My sister is darker than me. Closer to your colour, actually.”

Sylvie glanced at Athos who nodded. “Are you interested in the position, or did you just want to meet me?”

“Oh, the position, certainly. It’s difficult for a person of my faith to find a position in a good household, and once I learned whose household it was, I was even more interested.”

Sylvie looked over her application letter. “You know Hebrew, Greek, Latin, and French?”

“Yes, my lady. My family are firm believers in the need for women’s education. I was fortunate in being allowed to attend the [North London Collegiate School](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/North_London_Collegiate_School). My mother, of course, gave me a good grounding in all the household arts, and taught me to paint. My father instructed me in Hebrew, mathematics and philosophy, and my brother, a doctor, has given me some medical training.”

Sylvie grinned. “My father taught me that as well. As you can see,” she said, gesturing at her stomach, “your charge is not available just yet. Have you experience with new-borns?”

“Yes, I do. I have four younger siblings, and three nephews. I’m not in a hurry to find a position, so waiting until your delivery is no difficulty for me.”

“Miss Carvalho,” Athos said. “Before you came in, we have five ladies more or less spit in my wife’s face and walk out because of her colour, and a sixth tried to murder her. If you faced that kind of hostility while out with her or our child, how would you react?”

She didn’t flinch at Athos’s abrupt announcement, and her expression was quite calm as she answered. “Unless someone offered violence, I would simply walk on. If they did offer violence, I carry a pistol for such eventualities.”

Sylvie was decided. “Athos, I want her.”

“You don’t want to think about it?”

“Not for another moment.” She held out her hand to Miss Carvalho. “You do want the job, don’t you?”

“Yes, I really do,” she said, smiling.

“Excellent. Now, we were about to have tea and something to eat, so please join us, and afterwards, Athos and Constance can show you around. It’s, uh, somewhat difficult for me at the moment.”

“I quite understand.”

“Athos, perhaps you could ask Constance for the tea, and invite her to join us?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And Cecily should come too.”

“Yes, dear,” Athos said, smiling privately at something or other.

_Darling man._

********************* 

**The Wandsworth And Battersea District Times**

_The Marquess and Marchioness of DELAFERE visited the premises of Mr GEO.A. NAISMITH, PHARMACEUTICAL CHEMIST at Brixton Road on 29th April to offer his lordship’s sincere gratitude for the recent services rendered to his marchioness. Lady Delafere was put in grave danger by scoundrels seeking to abduct her and Mr Naismith, along with several of his customers, prevented any harm coming to her ladyship, and protected her until help from her friends arrived._

_Lord Delafere announced that in recognition of Mr Naismith’s bravery and the particular skills he demonstrated on that day, he will endow the WANDSWORTH CRICKET CLUB with the LORD AND LADY DELAFERE CUP for best all-rounder, with an annual prize of £20._

_Lady Delafere, in pale green silk with a rose-pink hat trimmed with lavender ribbons, said, “Mr Naismith was a comfort to me at a moment of great peril, and I believe that without his intervention and that of his brave customers, I may not have survived this affair. He is the very embodiment of all that is honourable in English manhood.”_

_Lord Delafere also presented Mr Naismith with a letter formally acknowledging his gratitude, to be displayed in the pharmacy’s window._

_*********************_

“All that is honourable in English manhood?” Aramis asked, leaning over Sylvie’s shoulder from the pew behind, and handing Athos back the clipping he’d been reading.

“I don’t remember saying that,” Sylvie said, flushing a little. “Though I might have been a little carried away.”

“Perfectly understandable, my dear,” Athos said. “Are you all right? You’re shifting rather a lot.”

“The baby is as excited about the wedding as I am, I think,” she said, adjusting her position again.

Athos leaned in with concern. “It’s not labour, is it?”

“No, dear.” Since Samara’s child had arrived a little early, Athos was anxious the same would be true for Sylvie’s, no matter how much Aramis explained it didn’t work like that. “Though I’ll be glad when we can go back to the house. Shhh, here she comes.”

The organist began to play “[Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RdWVfrZ3MeQ)” and the congregation turned to watch Constance, in a dress of a delicate shade of blue, and wearing the veil Sylvie had begged her to borrow as a mark of her esteem, walking up the aisle of the church, on the arm of John Treville, her own father having passed away some years ago. D’Artagnan in a smart, new suit, looked ready to burst with pride as he watched her. Sylvie couldn’t help grinning at the two of them. They were such a perfect, if fiery, match, and the Delafere house had become an even happier, more joyful place with d’Artagnan’s addition.

Watching was their entire staff, Porthos and Samara’s entire household, many of d’Artagnan’s former colleagues, and those friends of Constance who disdained to look down on her and her mistress—she had no other kind of friend, of course.

Clementine Carvalho sat next to Aramis, being the only two non-Protestants at the ceremony. Neither looked concerned at the display of religious feeling around them, and as Clementine had explained to Sylvie, they all worshipped the same god—it was just the finer details they disagreed over. Sylvie knew it was more than that, but was glad Clementine didn’t feel excluded.

The ceremony itself was brief and heartfelt. To the rousing sounds of Handel’s “[Entrance of the Queen of Sheba](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zND23HcMx3U)”, the newly married couple left St James, followed by Athos and Sylvie who shared the carriage back to the house where two constables stood on guard.

One of the constables opened the front door for them. D’Artagnan insisted on carrying Constance through it, to the sound of Constance’s giggling protests.

“I think I’ll refrain from copying his example,” Athos said, taking Sylvie’s hand.

“Just as well. I might explode if you try.”

“Please don’t.”

She smiled at his concerned expression. “When they have their own children, and if they continue to live with us....”

“Which I hope they do.”

“Which I pray they do, we’ll need a bigger house.”

“Why don’t we all just decamp to the estate?” Athos said.

“But what about our work?”

He dismissed that easily as they entered the hall. In the dining room, hired caterers had prepared a wedding breakfast fit for the Queen herself, though a little smaller in scale. Athos guided Sylvie to the library as her designated place to rest when she needed it. “The railways and the telegraph will make it trivial to travel back and forth, and send messages, and we can maintain this place or something smaller if we have to stay overnight. The children should have clean air and room to run.”

“We’ve only _just_ finished preparing the nursery, darling.”

“Yes, I know, but I don’t see d’Artagnan waiting, do you?”

“No,” Sylvie answered with a smile. “They both adore children. Yes, let’s move to the countryside as soon as possible. The company of Londoners wears thin after a while.”

“Quite,” Athos said, his amusement slipping. Catherine Fabricant had just been committed for trial on a charge of attempted murder. The publicity around the case involving a gentlewoman and a marchioness—and one apparently notorious for flouting conventions—had led to all of them encountering ugly comments, either directly or overhead. It had been vile, and would only grow worse.  “If I can’t use my own estate to avoid the stupidity of others, what use is it at all?”

“Exactly.” She drew him down so she could kiss him. “Now, my lord. Shall we freshen up and prepare to join the other guests?”

*********************

**THE MARQUESS OF DELAFERE**

_Lord and Lady DELAFERE are delighted to announce the arrival of their daughter,_  
_The Lady Alice Grace d’Athos, on 1st July, 1871._  
_Mother and daughter are both well._

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired, naturally, by The Return. Making GIFs I was surprised to realise that ‘Baron Rénard’ was in fact, properly known as ‘Baron du Louvrier’, ‘Rénard’ being his surname, I guess (like Athos’s is ‘D’Athos’.
> 
> To Anglicize this, I took ‘Louvrier’ (which is not a place in France as far as I can tell) which means ‘the worker’ and looked for a surname in use in England which meant that. I picked ‘Fabricant’ (as in [Michael Fabricant](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michael_Fabricant)). For a first name, I took ‘Rénard’ — French for ‘fox’, and changed it to the first name of the most famous fox in Britain, ‘Basil Brush :)
> 
> Catherine de Garouville—‘Garou town’—was easily changed to ‘Catherine Garrowtown’.
> 
> As for the political basis for the story—[William Ewart Gladstone](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Ewart_Gladstone), who became Prime Minister in 1868, believed he had a ‘[mission to pacify Ireland](http://www.iisresource.org/Documents/0A5_06_Gladstone_Ireland.pdf)’. Irish Catholics had long suffered under various injustices—absentee landlords (often English), imposition of rule by the English (largely Protestant) and the privileged position given to the minority Church of Ireland (protestant). Gladstone was sympathetic to the Irish complaints. Under him, t[he Church of Ireland was disestablished in 1871 ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Irish_Church_Act_1869), which basically removed its outsized political power. However, there was considerable opposition to the idea of Irish democratic self-government among the English (especially on the Conservative side), just as there was to English rule in Ireland among the Irish, and the [Fenian Uprising](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fenian_Rising) led to some horrible savagery on both sides in 1867.
> 
> [Spencer Lyttleton](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_William_Spencer_Lyttelton) really was Gladstone’s assistant private secretary, and his cousin.
> 
> [A nascent push for Home Rule through democratic means began in 1870](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Irish_Home_Rule_movement), and became more full-throated and successful in 1873. Gladstone eventually converted to the idea, but was unable to achieve it with his first Home Rule bill, leading to his losing government for the third time in 1886.
> 
> As for the racism against Sylvie, there was no black British marchioness [until 2015](http://www.telegraph.co.uk/women/mother-tongue/familyhistory/9975930/Britains-blue-blood-has-been-mixed-for-centuries.html), and as that link  and [this one ](http://www.telegraph.co.uk/films/2016/07/06/dido-belle-britains-first-black-aristocrat/)show, the racism in my story is exactly what Sylvie would have been subjected to, which rather goes against the idea that the British nobility had been ‘multicultural’ for centuries (even if Britain did have [one mixed race queen](http://www.aaregistry.org/historic_events/view/englands-first-black-queen-sophie-charlotte-born).) The first black man to enter the House of Lords was [Learie Constantine](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Learie_Constantine). However, black people have been recorded in Britain since the Middle Ages, as have Jews. Both groups have endured—in both senses of the word—a great deal of racism and repression.


End file.
